


Little Cabin in the Woods

by curi_o



Category: Firefly
Genre: Contrivances: Lost Together, Contrivances: One Blanket, F/M, POV: River Tam, POV: Second Person, Pairing: Pre-Relationship, Pairing: Pre-River/Jayne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-05
Updated: 2006-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 03:46:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curi_o/pseuds/curi_o
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>River and Jayne get lost in a snowy wood.  Pre-Rayne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Leg of Lamb

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very favorite River/Jayne story I've written. I hope you enjoy it, too.
> 
> Last edited 08/12

" _Gorram_! It’s colder’n a convent in the core out here!”

You follow the huge man, your head bent against the wind. You amuse yourself by stepping in each of his dinosaur footprints ( _He is with them always, now_ , you murmur through chapped lips). This is also practice. Two by one, confuse the Sun.

He wears seven-league boots, you believe, and yours only three. The mistakes matter less here; the only punishment more crushed white. Crush, crunch, crisp, cringe as the mercury falls. The mercury—no, _mercenary_ —money-man takes the brunt of the whiplash currents ( _no red for the better_ and _how is that possible?_ ) for you, sacrifices his body, again, to your health.

Always the sacrificial lamb. You think you’ll call him Isaac. After all, he laughs. No doe, no Jack ( _Jill is a girl's name_ ), no waterhillcrowns. Brown paper to patch the broken? Such a strange custom. _These are a few of my favorite things_.

Your delight in snowflakes melted when you tumbled through them. Should not chase the shiny, silly RiverOtter, unique like each other body. The Lambasaur, Isaac-on-the-Cobb, came tumbling after—maybe Jill would be a more appropriate appellation. You should be Mary, contrary, followed to school one day. Your IsaacJayneLambJack would make the children laugh and play, to see such an incongruous aberration.

You are very glad not to be Bo Peep, happier to be the one separated from the ninety-nine, and suddenly the sacrifice is the very good shepherd and the links create a chain, chain you to him and them and your brain is such an _interesting_ place. Of course, it is also a funhouse horror show, a stony, rocky _horror_ picture show.

But not always. This white slickhard insulates against forced knowledge. Who in her right mind would read for pleasure? You were once in your more correct mind: welcome to your left.

The coldwet has numbed your flanges, the ones near your metatarsals, and you must wonder if your footwear is cracked, flawed, letting the unwanted in, or if the moisture you will find is sweat, performing its function.

Your ankles. The Aech-Tooh-Oweh sneaks in and matters its state, state of matters, state of the union of matter conversion from solid to liquid to girlflesh to shivers.

You feel the mansheepboy’s exhaustion, frustration. You wish you could open the back to the forth and teach him your gratitude. You know he’s worthy ( _miles more worthy than what you’ve got_ ) and you know what you’ll call him. He could be your Vera, and he will, but time is a fickle dimension, Einstein. Tricksy, masquerading as low steady beat or tick-tick-tock, hickory dickory dock.

And suddenly you are impatient and you push at the time-curtain with your mind. _Gorram_ rutting chronos, Kronos, Zeit, _que hora_! Heavy, foolish, stubborn curtain. It shifts a smidge under your weight, compensates and now it is you who are shifting back.

Simon is always the one to say, _Patience, mei mei, patience._ Idiot boob. Gormless tit.

So you are still trudging and everything has not changed and then the mutton pauses on the path to the slaughter. You notice too late, distracted by Brother Needle Breast, and your face is smooshed against Alpha ram’s fleece.

You step back, embarrassed, trip and land on your _pi gu_ in the snow. Lucy in the sky with blue diamond eyes look down at you, twinkling and amused despite themselves, and you remember now that the lamb with mint sauce is only wearing sheep clothes, granny clothes.

What big eyes and teeth, but you have no need to cry wolf—no need at all. This is your Alpha male, someday your mate, and you are not afraid. You grin back and, because you are already soaked, slide your appendages along the surface of the white. _Flow, Riverangel_. The wolf is laughing teeth, now, as your antics distract and please. Alpha feels like a pup, a youngling despite his years, and you thrill to know you are the cause.

When your exuberance has left you tired, belly aching from the giggles, your Alpha bends his form, his eyes on yours, reaches for you with his sizable paws. And the electricity goes through you when yours touch his as he helps you to your feet.

He is task-focused again, pointing to a miracle across the clearing. A little cabin in the woods—you’ve gone into the woods and met a wolf and his song greets you: _Hello, little girl_.

And you dance toward the shelter, your den for the night with your wolf-mate, dreaming of fires and quilts and affection-love. In his head, he chuckles from his belly, but this is silent from his exhaustion. You bound to the door, and if you had claws, you’d be scrabbling, and if you were less human, you’d whine high in your throat.

But it is unlocked and you enter, your Jaynewolf mere strides behind you. And you freeze and you scream.


	2. Sheep's Clothes

Yet again, despite himself, the big one runs for you, fear for you quickening his heart rate, his breathing. And he pushes you behind him as his eyes dart around the dark room. He turns to you in confusion.

You are blushing and hiding your eyes, because you know you have been foolish. “Spider,” you mumble. “Spider _web_.”

And his cold hands are on either side of your face and he studies your eyes before dropping his hands and laughing again. You grow indignant.

“Arachnids are dangerous. Tiny and sneaky and _dangerous_.”

His eyebrow lifts, amused. “Sounds like you oughta get along real well with them ‘rachnids, Crazy.” He notices your crossed arms and sighs. He can afford to accommodate your quirks, now. “Just wait right here. I’m gonna start a fire and turn on the lights and clear away the spider webs.”

This must be verified. “ _All_ the webs?”

“That’s what I said, ain’t it?”

“Don’t forget the cliffwalls and the sky, then. They hide where you least expect.” _If you can’t do something smart, do something right_ —the first time.

He rolls his eyes. “Gimme one of them twigs, girl. I’ll knock down the webs and kill all the scary creepy crawlies.”

You stare at him. “You want to _kill_ the beasts?”

He is bewildered. “They scare you, I kill them. That’s how it works.”

You shake your head, bemused. “They have not harmed me; I wish them no harm. They are simply living as they ought.” _Live simply, that others may simply live._

He shakes his head back at you, continues to indulge. You watch as he swipes behind furniture, under the bed, pokes in the corners, and swats at the ceiling.

When he tires of the chore, he looks you a question, _Is this good enough?_

“Not shiny, but acceptable,” you answer aloud, nodding and stepping into your little one-room abode. It is strange that the furniture is not dusty, though it has not been used in some time, and you thank the ‘verse for small favors.

Your wolfish man sees you shiver and starts for the fireplace. There is wood here, and matches, and you begin to wonder if you will find a fey deity-mother in the mirror. Any pumpkins would be rotten, of course, and mice turned to horses would not be useful now; glass slippers, _how impractical!_ Yours must be the useful sort, and you are glad for that.

When the crackle pop is loud enough, Alpha turns and studies you. You have settled to the floor, dripping on the rug beneath you. Your skin feels thick, rubbery and smooth and still you tremble from the chill.

Alpha tenses, though perhaps you are seeing what he would hide. His shoulders may not have frozen for that moment; his breath may not have stopped still in time. He finds his thoughts a disturbance of the peace (civil unrest, Thoreau behind bars to Emerson), but he takes that unbreathed breath and presses on.

“Crazy, girl, Cap’n and the Doc’ll kill me if’n I bring them back a sickly girl-shaped ice planet, ‘stead of a moonbrained killer woman,” and you _do_ see him hesitate this time, as his brain-eyes see what his sphere-eyes have not. “So, uh, you gotta get outta them clothes.”

And you feel the most delicious tremor begin at the base of your spine and move through your shoulder blades. You know the wolf intends to turn, show deference, respect to your modesty, but what have you to hide? Skin is body is flesh is girl is you and he _must_ see you.

So you meet his eyes, blue beyond any ocean sky River you’ve dreamed, and you nod your assent. And you stand slowly and you don’t break the chain that connects you, paper cup telephone, but this is not a game.

Your clothes are stiff and heavy wet, so this is less grace-filled ( _Mariver_ , full of grace) than you’d hoped, but you dance the steps that come. Your arms to your hands to the hood on your head, and slowly push it back. Unwrap the scarf, a spiral ribbon above you, and let it fall.

Remove the mittens you’ve forgotten and peel off that first layer. The zipper is like tearing paper, careful, smooth, and measured.

When the sodden mess of that coat (armor or arms or down feather-filled?) slaps to the floor, you can flow more freely than before. _What big eyes you have,_ canine Jayne. Jaynine, the immortality impulse is natural. Life wishes to continue living, and this is why we procreate. Lust and pleasure are the incentive and reward; there is no shame in this.

But you did not say that to the male sculpture ( _Adonis_ ) before you, because if he startles, there is the danger he will crack. And a cracked Jayne is no good to you tonight; you need the solid state, molecules heated but static.

So when his eyes leave yours to travel down your body, you pause and breathe shallowly. If he can forget you are SpaceDangerTrash, if the male grows warm toward you, this may be the beginning of the happy after ever. After ever, after all, after…

After his eyes leave yours and linger on the fabric that clings to your form, you begin to comprehend how a breast may be more than a Simon or a bottle. The tightening at the peaks is a pleasure strange as any, with the coldwet and the gazeheat and the Jaynethought.

And those eyes study your figure with intensity and you realize he is sketching your form on his mental canvas. He is still unaware of his actions, you note, caught in current of the want/need River; and yet this is not the instinct ritual. This is not a thoughtless rut. There is something new under the sun, and you are _not_ chasing after the wind.

The heat surges lower and suddenly _you_ are throbbing at three points, a triangle of breeding season lust that will not be sated, though your belly tingles, too, and you must bite back the moan.

This brings his eyes back to yours and you cannot read what is clearly before you, do not even try. You cross your arms over that triangle of desire and grip the wet that ends there.

 _Slow_ ly.

Slower, Rivulet, Ria, Stream, Channel.

You do gasp when the wet fabric covers your face, though this is disgust at the slimy intrusion on your flushed, pink skin, and suddenly you cannot wait to be free of the soggy fibers.

When they drop to the floor, it is you in your camisole, soulless camisole, and skirt over trousers over socks and underwear and the boots you forgot to remove. A wicked thought flashes through your mind (or was it his, and does it matter?) and you have leaned forward, over, to pick at the laces.

And in his mind, there is the satisfaction of cleavage, of cleaving, cleft: _Rock of ages, do this for me_.

But the knots on your boots are stubborn and your fingers are still so stiff and he has noticed at last. The Jaynewolf growls and produces a knife.

You think you should perhaps be wary: the three of you have never yet ended well. But he lowers his bulk to the floor at your feet ( _always lower than the Queen of the River_ ) and his eyes meet yours once more and you have no reason to be frightened.

Four short slices later and your feet slip from prison like they were born to the adventure. The man-- _man_ , you realize, _mine_ \--below you carefully plants your feet back on the rug and you realize he has touched you (although never fully, because the atoms make it so) and his gaze is still enraptured.

Or _entranced_ , you wonder, and look around quickly for the Robin Goodfellow with his flower-syrup for your lover’s eye.

The faery court is nowhere to be seen and there is still a beautiful male at your feet. You loosen the snaps that hold the heavy woolen skirt together, raise your arms above your head, and shimmy your hips till the sheep-hair pools around two stocking feet and a large man’s hands.

And you have lost your patience again, seeing through his eyes, and your pants land on the floor and you have no memory of removing them.

You have been more exposed than this, you know, in the presence of the wolf before you, but you have never felt more vulnerable. The desire in your stomach clenches with uncertainty and your senses are on fire as you lift the camisole from your torso, and the wolfsheep has closed his eyes of a sudden, and yet you continue with the ritual. And then it is you in your socks alone with the wolf and the fire and the spiders in a cabin in the woods in the heavy fallen snow.

“Jayne?” You sound more timid than you think you feel; you don’t want to remind him that he is an old wolf, but you have.

And he must ask this question with his eyes, because that is his way, so he peeks a bit, just a squint-look, really, and then the blue orbs are wide before they crash in on themselves, a blue supernova.

“Blanket from the bed, Ri- _Moonbrain_ , and take off your socks.”


	3. Pretty Piece of Flesh

You are cocooned in the musty-smelling quilt (patchwork and pieces, like you), seated on the bed, your back against the wood panels of the wall. You wish once more it were time to butterfly, land on the Jaynewolf, but you are still a caterpillar—an ugly one, at that. ( _The ugliest caterpillars become butterflies, mei mei. Those fuzzy ones? They turn into drab moths._ Huh. You are no drab _moth._ )

Alpha has not moved from the floor and you resist the urge to test his vital signs. Your fingers to his pulse points (you shiver, thinking of their locations) would anger and confuse, you know, and he _is_ still breathing. The huff puffs are in and out uneven, and he is not asleep. He is perhaps calming this strange new fire (a forever-fire sacrifice to the Gods, and you think: _Loki_ and wish you hadn’t.), a conflagration of desire when he thinks of you.

And all too suddenly he shudders and rises, like a bear from hibernation or a Titan-mountain walking, back to you. Your breath catches in your throat as you realize what will happen now.

You make a valiant effort to give him that which you would not accept, burying your face in the blankets, because you do not trust your fingers. You were always the one peeking through her fingers when the villain lurked to startle the hero—you do not possess large quantities of self-control (as though it were one of Simon’s miracle chemicals in a jar—liquid gold, and you are poor).

But you hear a large man’s coat unzip, and it strikes you that it takes much longer for his to finish than it did yours. (The male’s call is longer and lower than the female’s, you note.) And you are sweating in the dark and the smell of the warm is upsetting and you push your nose through the opening and try not to see. But the air is fresh again and you cannot help feeling drawn to the light and the live warmth that thrives just outside your cocoon.

So it is your eyes and nose and mouth (and the whole is a _face_ , you remember, like a cube or a coin) framed by musty old quilt-blanket and you survey the scene before you. The Trickster is halfway through the process of removing his shirt and you are nearly giddy at the sight. It is plastered against the muscles of his back, and you have forgotten their names because they are called _Jayne_ , and that is all you need.

The muscles flex as his arms pull it over his head and drop it to the floor and he shakes that head of dark, short hair, a very canine action, you note. And you are shivering again at the bare flesh before you. You distract yourself by counting the scars as he bends down ( _at the knees,_ because that is how to treat his body right—and Jayne _always_ treats his body right, and someday he will own yours.) to remove his boots.

You admire the line of his back, from shoulders to hips to muscular buttocks and you must restrain yourself from reaching out to pet. You marvel that _this_ wet dog’s odor does not offend your senses as he straightens and raises one foot at a time to divest of first boots, then socks.

And he is standing upright and all that separates his flesh from yours are two layers of cotton, the smallest bit of air, and a musty quiltblanket. This, in the end, is the thought that brings his eyes to yours: you shiver in want and admiration and the bedsprings creak beneath you.

Alpha meant to stare forward, away from you, but he starts at the sound and his head, of its own accord, turns to examine the source. It pulls his torso with it, so you watch his body twisting at the waist and are overwhelmed with appreciation for Norse gods with the foresight to procreate.

But this appreciation burns away as his blue eyes find yours and you are locked together, like parts from Kaylee’s engine or a sperm and an egg, and this pulls his body to face you full-on. You are not sure he is wholly conscious of his actions as he reaches to his waistband and deftly unbuttons (you would be all thumbs, you are sure) before sliding another zipper down (this call is the whimper of need, one to another). He rocks his hips slightly from side to side as he pushes the trousers down, and you can see this all though your eyes are locked to his.

He steps up and out and then it is he and soggy white briefs (and you wonder _why not boxers_ and recall a long-ago conversation and the word “support”) and they hide nothing. And your eyes do stray from his now, wander from pectoral to pectoral and down farther, over ribs to navel and down that thin line of hair ( _happy trail_ , indeed) to a sinfully firm bulge, and you wish you had felt it form beneath your hand.

There are shadows and dark hair where his legs meet, and you follow them both down and note the further scars and hair covering him like a wire-fur coat. You feel compelled to lick that hair, to bathe he who will become your mate, but he coughs and your eyes dart to his. Although you cannot read his expression, you know you are blushing furiously as that final piece of clothing slides from his body.

As though connected by a wire, your gaze snaps to _that place_ again, and your eyes widen at the sheer _size_ of the thing. You have not labeled the arrogant appendage; “penis,” after all, sounds far too clinical (like “vagina,” a disease), but other words you have heard sound wanton and irreverent. And you _do_ revere what stands before you: this entire beautiful, hard, solid body.

So you will call it Jayne and it will be Jayne, because, after all, you both are only flesh and blood. All that he is, all that you are—chemicals and bone and elements and atoms and DNA and gametes, oh, _gametes_ , and the hormones of thought and action—all contained in these four walls.

All contained in these four walls, and nothing exists without.

And your eyes find his as you wait for his next move.


	4. Safely to Abide

He is naked before you. You are humbled by the thought. This male, your very own Alpha, willingly reveals himself to few—to none you can name. It is strange, how small your _Serenity_ -world is, though the ‘verse seems so very vast indeed.

There were nine, then seven, though here in the now there are only two. Try not to think on the other five, lest you lose yourself from the moment.

 _One_ —one thousand.

And his eyes, it is his eyes still that draw you. You know you are young and small and he is wizened and large and yet age and size seem equal here, when it is gaze to gaze. The pupils in the blue dilate and it is fascinating. The black seems to swallow the blue, which forces you to consider the possibility of the big bad wolf swallowing you whole.

 _Two_ —one thousand.

That thought was foolish, say his sloping cheekbones to your own. We belong to you, even more than you to us. You are our _home_ River-otter, little female. We would see you safe through this world’s ending and all the rest, through the inevitable collapse of the ‘verse or however it will end.

 _Three_ —one thousand.

No! Don’t go, Jaynewolf! Lupine dreams have so far to go before waking, he has turned his back to you and… _bent_ …

Oh.

 _Four_ —one thousand.

Bend at the knees, back to you, and you can see it all so clearly. Gathering your wet to his wet and the trappings he stands again to stretch before dry heat and glow. And there is the silly dangling shadow you see between his legs, and you are smooth and inward-bent, where he is knobs and dips and hills.

 _Five_ —one thousand.

You are amazed that there is so much to life—much more than you knew before _them_ in the cruel blue and even during and after and up until now. Amazed that there is still so much to life, though in another time, your Alpha would be all but dead, even outlived life expectancy for the human male wolf. And age is great fear of youth, but his age speaks to your youth in a song of life and knowing.

 _Six_ —oh, six.

He must have moved slowly, though you lost track of the moment after all, because now he stands before you and pulls timidly at the fabric edges binding you in. He needs you to share the warmth, moonbrain, luna, rialuna, lunaria.

 _Sev_ —…

Is this what it will always feel like? He does not even love you yet, and still he trembles, and not from cold. His form wraps around yours, under the blanket, his arms over yours and meet at your breasts. His hands grip your forearms, and you wonder if that is the action of a lover or protector, though when you feel _the other_ , the distinction loses meaning.

His right leg, the leg closest to the ceiling where undead spiders may still lurk to spin upsetting webs, has snaked over yours and down, through the crevice between right and left, fibula to tibia to fibula to tibia, back out again, so your legs are pulled apart, your rump against _him_ , the warm wet part of you, the secret from the world, more vulnerable than it has been in such a long time.

 _Eight_ —Appreciate.

And it took him so long, but he at last slumbers. He was distracted by your soft against his hard and the strange new things he feels toward one who is not quite all there, but he begins to believe you are there _enough_ , and it is only a matter of months before he will know beyond doubt or lies.

You cannot imagine a pleasure more intense, concrete, or painfully peaceful than the strong hot cage of his frame around yours. It is dragging you down to join it in the dreaming, now, and you smile as you contemplate joining Alpha, giving him a taste of the things you will know in a short time.

Before you allow the moment to swallow your conscious mind, you set the internal alarm you have carried for so long. You will wake before the Patriarch and the Breast and the Warrior arrive, to bundle you from the fragile paradise you were gifted; to return to a semblance of normalcy.

And after leaving tonight’s stop by woods on this glorious snowy evening, you will have miles to go before another slumber so peaceful.


End file.
